


Develop

by tastewithouttalent



Category: ACCA13区監察課 | ACCA 13-ku Kansatsuka
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Feeding, Hand Jobs, Licking, Light Bondage, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Photography, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex and Chocolate, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-12 05:34:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11155311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Jean’s gaze slides across Nino’s chest, skimming over the three squares of chocolate running up the other’s body in a perfectly straight line; Nino can feel the weight of that attention prickle electricity in its wake, as if Jean had reached out to trail his fingers up the midline of the other’s chest instead of just his gaze." Nino lets Jean play the artist with him.





	Develop

“There,” Jean says, sounding calm and cool and only very faintly satisfied with himself as he settles the third piece of chocolate in the exact center of Nino’s chest. “Almost done.”

“I hope so,” Nino tells him, staring straight up at the ceiling as a safer point to watch than Jean leaning over him with that intent focus in his eyes. His arms are up over his head, his wrists bound together to the support of the headboard with the familiar line of Jean’s tie; he’s not pulling against the restraint at least as much from respect for Jean’s clothes as from his implicit surrender to anything Jean wants to do to him, which he suspects was at least partially the point. “I think they’re starting to melt.”

“It’s fine,” Jean soothes as he pulls away from the bed and turns back towards the open chocolate wrapper sitting at the edge of the desk. It rustles softly when he reaches for the last piece, the paper too thin to hold itself in place without the weight of the candy within it. Jean turns back, the chocolate caught delicately between thumb and forefinger, and he comes back in towards the bed, kneeling against the edge of it as he reaches out to brace himself with a hand on Nino’s far side as he leans in over the other. “We’re almost done anyway.”

“Okay,” Nino says, because he never really had any resistance to offer Jean anyway, and because he doesn’t mind the sticky catch of the candy warming against the pulse of blood in his veins. He thinks it might be as much his fault as Jean’s that the chocolate is already starting to melt onto his skin; but he can no more calm the rush of his heartbeat when Jean is around than he can stop his breathing, and it’s only compounded with his shirt on the floor and the whole of his chest laid bare for the considering gaze Jean is turning on him now, as if Nino is the start of a masterpiece he intends to capture within the lens of his attention. Jean’s gaze slides across Nino’s chest, skimming over the three squares of chocolate running up the other’s body in a perfectly straight line; Nino can feel the weight of that attention prickle electricity in its wake, as if Jean had reached out to trail his fingers up the midline of the other’s chest instead of just his gaze. He’s breathing harder, his heart is racing, it must be perfectly obvious from the position Jean has taken over him; but Jean doesn’t comment on any part of Nino’s reaction, his skipping-fast inhales or the radiant heat of his skin or the arousal as perfectly clear to see as the chocolate starting to melt over him.

“Here,” Jean says, finally, as if he’s only just seen some vital key he was looking for; and he reaches out, fingers angled to elegance on the last square of chocolate as he places it delicately just at the dip between Nino’s collarbones. It settles against the skin like a paperweight, like a pin to lock Nino in place against the sheets where he’s lying, and Nino gusts an exhale and tries to calm the pant of his breathing. Jean leans back over his heels, straightening from his angle over Nino so the illumination of the light overhead can fall across the other’s skin; Nino watches him, watches Jean’s gaze slide down over the image he’s made of the other, and feels his skin glowing with heat under that attention as the chocolate at his stomach melts to slowly settle into the texture of his skin.

Jean nods. “Good,” he says; and then he’s turning away again, moving back towards the desk where the empty chocolate wrapper is still lying. Nino’s forehead creases in confusion at this inexplicable motion; but then Jean reaches out to loop his fingers into the strap of the camera Nino set there when he came in, alongside the glasses he stripped off before his shirt. Nino catches a breath, feeling his pulse skid faster in his throat; and then Jean is bracing the camera in his hands and turning back around with his head ducked down over the weight of it.

“It’s easy to use this, right?” he asks without looking up. His fingers slide against the edges of the camera, his hands working across the shape of it like he’s learning the fit of the weight against his skin; Nino feels as hot as if it’s his body Jean’s hands are skimming over instead of his camera. “Do I need to do anything special?”

Nino has to a take a breath before he can think enough to even parse Jean’s question, much less shake his head in answer. “No,” he says. His voice sounds strange to his ears, tense and a little higher than it usually is, like it’s winding itself around the too-fast rhythm of his heart in his chest. “Take the cap off and push the button at the top.”

Jean’s mouth quirks on the hint of a smile. “I know that part,” he says without looking up from the shift of his hands as he does as instructed and lifts the camera to his face so he can look through the viewfinder. There’s a moment as he orients himself -- Nino can see the crease of focus at the other’s forehead -- and then the camera steadies, Jean’s grip stabilizing as he focuses the lens on Nino in front of him, and Nino can feel his face flush to pink, can feel his skin radiating heat against the cool weight of the chocolate against him. He has to lick his lips before he can speak, before he can find words to give to Jean on the other side of the camera, and even then his voice cracks, shaking like it’s going to break itself apart before he can manage the least coherency.

“Jean.” Nino licks his lips again. His face is hot, his breath is coming fast. The chocolate at his stomach is almost sliding, he can feel its traction on his skin giving way as the heat of his body melts through the cool friction of the sugar. “What are you doing?”

“I thought that was obvious,” Jean says from behind the weight of the camera. “I’m taking your picture.”

“Like this?” Nino asks, even though the answer is obvious as Jean tilts the camera to bring Nino into focus on the other side of the camera lens.

“Yes.” Jean’s fingers slide over the camera to brace it for the shot. His hands are very steady. Nino can’t stop his own from trembling. “After all the pictures you’ve taken of me, I wanted one for myself.”

“Jean,” Nino says, the other’s name slipping into almost a groan at the back of his tongue, his protest unravelling into heat as fast as he manages it; and Jean’s finger presses at the shutter of the camera, and Nino shudders with the click of the photograph, with the sound that comes with the capture of his image on the film. It’s a strange feeling, to have that familiar sound in his ears with the perspective so inverted; Nino can’t look away from the dark of the camera in Jean’s hands, can’t find his breath from under the minimal weight of the squares of chocolate running up the center of his chest. He doesn’t think he’s ever been so hard in all his life.

“Good,” Jean says, perfectly oblivious or perhaps just unaffected by the evidence of Nino’s self-consciousness, by the proof of Nino’s arousal panting so hard in the quiet of the room. “Let me take a couple more to be sure.”

“Oh my god,” Nino groans, “ _Jean_ ” but Jean is already taking another picture, a whole series of them, shifting the camera and pressing the shutter to capture Nino as he lies spread out across Jean’s bed with the other’s tie binding his hands above his head and a line of expensive chocolate melting into his skin. Nino feels stripped bare, exposed in a way he hasn’t even while wearing far less than this; there’s some permanency to this, to knowing that Jean is freezing this moment in time, is locking in proof of this experience the same way Nino has dedicated his life to pinning fragments of Jean’s own life to paper. Nino is gasping for breath, the chocolate at his skin is starting to slide sideways with every ragged inhale he takes; and finally:

“Alright,” Jean says, and lowers the camera so he can look at Nino directly again. Nino shudders an exhale, not sure if it’s relief or disappointment stronger in him, and Jean looks down to the camera as he replaces the cap and turns back to set it safely aside. “I’ve got it.”

Nino licks his lips and huffs a shaky laugh. “Is that what you wanted?” he asks as Jean looks back from the desk at the sound of his voice. “I didn’t know you had an interest in photography.”

Jean’s shoulder comes up in a tiny shrug. “I don’t really, in general.” He turns to face the bed again, steps forward until he’s standing at the end by Nino’s feet. “I wanted to take your picture, though.” He reaches out to touch his fingertips to the hem of Nino’s pants, to weight the fabric against the other’s skin; Nino huffs an exhale that comes hard in his chest at the ghost of Jean’s touch against him, but Jean doesn’t look up from the attention he’s turned to the other’s ankle. “You look good like this.”

Nino’s laugh comes hard past his lips, shakier than it is sincere. He feels laid open, stripped down to bone by the click of the camera shutter in Jean’s hands, as if all those years he has spent trying to collect the essence of who Jean is in dozens of photographs has been inverted on him entirely, to leave his soul captured in the space between Jean’s elegant hands and gentle fingertips. But he doesn’t pull away from it any more than he strains at the tie knotted around his wrists to bind his hands overhead, and he doesn’t look away from the fall of Jean’s golden hair over his face, from the slide of Jean’s touch against the inside of his ankle.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he says instead, and Jean’s lashes dip as he glances up to meet Nino’s gaze. Jean’s mouth is soft, his expression relaxed; it’s impossible to get a read on the weight of his mouth, on the shadowed blue of his eyes. He’s just looking at Nino, focused and calm and collected, and Nino stares back at him, feeling his whole self laid open behind his eyes and not willing to look away when Jean is watching him like he is. “What do you want to do with me now?”

Jean’s lashes dip. “I had a few ideas,” he says, and draws his touch away from Nino’s ankle. Nino takes a breath, tastes the temptation of protest on his tongue; but Jean is reaching out as fast as he draws his touch back, stretching to brace a hand against the sheets alongside Nino’s chest to hold himself steady as he comes up to kneel at the end of the bed. There’s a moment of hesitation as he steadies himself, as he angles his knees wider to fit around Nino’s shins; and then he’s moving forward, tipping in as he slides up over Nino’s body to lean over the other, the span of his shoulders and the fall of his hair curtaining Nino from the illumination of the light. “I can show you if you want.”

He sounds almost bored. If Nino had known him for less time he might think he really was, might take the level weight of Jean’s voice as indicative of a lack of interest beyond the academic. But Nino is staring up at Jean’s face, gazing straight into the blue of those eyes he has learned to know in all shades and all situations, and there’s a shadow behind them, a haze of distraction to match the flicker of tension at the corner of Jean’s mouth, the tiny tremor in his arm as he leans over Nino. It’s like an echo, as if the heat Nino can’t keep from thrumming through his own veins is radiating out to catch and wind into Jean’s body too; and that idea is enough all alone to dip Nino’s lashes, to duck his head into the weight of the surrender that is all he ever has to offer Jean. “Sure.”

“Good,” Jean says. “Thanks” as if he can’t see the way Nino is shaking under him, as if he hasn’t noticed the straining heat pulling taut at the front of Nino’s jeans between the open angle of Jean’s legs. Nino feels dizzy, like he’s drunk, like the taste of Jean’s breathing on his lips is headier than all the wine he’s ever tasted; but Jean is moving away instead of in, sliding back over him by inches as Nino blinks and tries to reorient himself to the glow of the light overhead instead of the muted gold of Jean’s hair.

“This really is melting,” Jean observes, still sounding so calm Nino’s heart seems to be pounding the harder just in comparison. “We’d better hurry up, it’d be a shame to waste it.”

“What are you--” Nino starts; and then Jean ducks in over him, and the warm wet of the other’s mouth brushes his skin, and he loses all the coherency at his lips in a single helpless exhale of pure heat. Jean shifts closer, moving with intention more than unstructured appreciation, but Nino can’t think, can’t calm the racing speed of his heart enough to even consider what it is Jean is doing. There’s the touch of heat to Nino’s chest, the drag of Jean’s tongue skimming across his skin; and then the square of chocolate moving as Jean draws it up against his teeth so he can bite down gently and lift it free of Nino’s body. Nino’s heart is fluttering, his pulse racing until he feels like he’s going to pass out, like he would have collapsed if he weren’t already lying flat across the sheets beneath him; and then Jean lifts his head, his teeth pressing to the square of chocolate caught in his mouth, the corner of his lips sticky with the rich sweet of the candy. Nino can’t catch his breath, can’t calm his breathing; he’s just staring at Jean, at the chocolate warm from the heat of his body now starting to melt just over Jean’s lips. He thinks for a moment Jean is going to eat the chocolate himself, maybe lick his lips slow and careful after; but Jean leans back in instead, tipping in closer over Nino while the other is still trying to catch his breath from the heat of Jean’s mouth against his skin.

“Here,” Jean says, or at least indicates, with the word muffled by the chocolate braced between his teeth. Nino blinks up at him, lost past understanding for a moment; then Jean ducks his head, and tips in an inch closer, and Nino makes sense of the other’s intent all at once. He parts his lips, opening his mouth with hesitant care; but Jean doesn’t pause at all in closing the gap between them to fit the square of chocolate into the heat of Nino’s mouth. There’s a rush of sweet, the heavy taste of the chocolate melting itself against Nino’s tongue as fast as he touches it; and a moment of heat, the catch of Jean’s lower lip dragging against Nino’s for the bare outline of a kiss to accompany the candy. Nino whimpers in the back of his throat, any attempt he might make at composure swept utterly aside by the mingled sensations of the moment; and then Jean is pulling away again, leaving Nino with chocolate on his tongue and heat at his mouth.

“Is it good?” Jean asks, licking at the corner of his mouth with unconscious grace. Nino’s gaze drops to the catch of the other’s tongue, to the slide of it to wet the corner of Jean’s mouth, and he can’t think enough to answer even if his tongue wasn’t full of the melting flavor of the chocolate. “You always like chocolate more than me. I wanted to let you have most of it.”

Nino blinks hard and swallows with some effort. His mouth is sticky, his lips clinging to the taste of the chocolate even when he makes an attempt to lick them to clean. “Yes,” he manages, though his voice comes out strange and husky as he forces the word free of his throat. “You should try some.”

“I will,” Jean says; and then he’s ducking in closer again, as quickly as that, leaning in before Nino has a chance to even catch a breath of anticipation. His mouth touches Nino’s chest, his lips part against the other’s skin, and Nino can’t help the moan that spills up from his throat as Jean’s tongue presses against him, the wet heat of it trailing across his chest and into the dip of skin just between his collarbones. He trembles under the friction, his whole body quivering like Jean’s mouth is electric, like all the calm in his body is fretting itself loose under the drag of the other’s tongue; but Jean doesn’t pull away, doesn’t even lift his head from the careful attention he’s giving to Nino’s skin. He licks against Nino with deliberate focus, working against the dip and curve of the other’s body as if he’s determined to work every last fragment of chocolate free, as if he’s far more desperate for the sugar than Nino has ever actually known him to be; by the time he’s drawing back his mouth is red, his eyes are heavy, and Nino thinks he himself is running a fever under the friction of Jean’s mouth.

“You’re right,” Jean says, and his voice is lower, now, rougher than it usually is as it drags in the back of his throat. He licks his lips, even though they don’t need it, and clears his throat as if that’s likely to ease the strain on his words. “It tastes amazing.”

“Oh my god,” Nino breathes, hearing the tremor on his inhales thrum through the sound of the words at his lips. “Jean.”

“They are melting, though,” Jean says, tipping his head down to give ostentatious attention to the path of chocolate he’s laid out against Nino’s chest. “I’d better hurry up if I don’t want them to go to waste.”

“Jean,” Nino says again, not sure if he’s encouraging or protesting or just reacting, just giving voice to the heat surging so desperately through him; and Jean is moving in any case, sliding down Nino’s body by another span of inches so he can lower his mouth to the shudder of breathing in the other’s chest. His movement is graceful, this time, certain in itself even as his teeth draw up over Nino’s skin to catch and lift the weight of the chocolate off the smear of melted sugar that it has left behind. Nino opens his mouth as quickly as Jean comes back up over him, parting his lips in immediate surrender to the other’s intent, and he’s rewarded as quickly with the rich weight of chocolate against his tongue and the gentle pressure of Jean’s lips against his. Jean tastes like the chocolate, sweet and sticky and dark with flavor, and Nino is still whimpering with it when the other pulls away to return to the span of Nino’s chest, to replace the press of the chocolate with the drag of his lips and tongue instead. Nino can’t help but arch up into the friction, his whole body curving reflexively to pursue the friction of Jean’s mouth working over his skin, and Jean doesn’t even hesitate, this time, before he trails lower down Nino’s body to free the third square of chocolate. This one is at the high angle of Nino’s ribcage, just over the fluttering force of his diaphragm working on his panting inhales; the drag of Jean’s teeth makes him jerk with ticklish sensation, his whole body spasming in helpless response.

“Sorry,” Jean says, though the word is muffled around the weight of the chocolate at his lips. He pulls away and up, arching over the line of Nino’s body under his; and Nino leans up into the kiss, this time, catching the chocolate somewhere between the fit of his mouth against Jean’s. Jean doesn’t protest, doesn’t pull away as he easily could; he lingers instead, bracing himself steady over Nino and parting his lips in answer to the urging of Nino’s mouth on his. Nino feels like he’s drowning in chocolate, the heavy flavor and the sweet scent rising up like a representation of his own arousal melting to sticky sugar between his mouth and Jean’s own. But he can taste Jean too, something steadier and more subtle underneath the impact of the expensive chocolate so filling his mouth, something he can chase down if he tastes Jean’s mouth, if he licks past the chocolate coating Jean’s lips and farther, more, reaching; and Jean pulls away, breathing so hard Nino can feel the heat of the other’s inhales against his lips.

“We’ll miss out on the last one,” he says, his eyes heavy-lidded and his lips red and wet; and then he’s moving, sliding away down Nino’s body without the least sign of self-consciousness. Nino is left to drop his head back to the bed, to blink hazily up at the ceiling while he tries to breathe and tries to remember how to ease the rush of his heartbeat; and then Jean’s mouth comes down on him again, and he loses track of everything in the first helpless moan of heat he offers up.

Jean is thorough about his work. He lingers over the chocolate melted in against the bottom edge of Nino’s ribcage, trailing his tongue up and against the sensitive skin regardless of how Nino shudders and quakes with the sensation. Nino doesn’t realize, at first, that Jean is moving down at all; he’s too lost in the full-body tremors that come with the ticklish drag of Jean’s tongue over his skin, and the catch of Jean’s teeth scraping just against his ribs. But he is moving down, unquestionably, Nino realizes as Jean presses a kiss against the taut line of his stomach as he goes; and then he reaches the last square of chocolate, the sweet of it melting to puddle over Nino’s navel, and he doesn’t come back up to offer what remains of the candy to the other. He settles himself instead, sliding back over the bed until he’s half-lying over the end of it rather than kneeling atop it, and when Nino shudders with anticipation Jean’s hands come out to clasp at his hips, to brace him in place against the mattress with a hold no less unbreakable for how careful it is. It’s like the knots in the tie binding Nino’s wrists above his head, like Jean himself -- gentle but unshakable, delicate but unflinching. There’s nothing Nino can do but lie there, where Jean has tied and held him, and feel the cresting heat in him surge higher with every slow pull of Jean’s tongue over his body. He feels like he’s being tasted, like he’s being consumed, like whatever of his soul Jean captured with the photograph is being taken in, now, pressed to Jean’s lips and caught on his tongue and made a part of him, to settle in against the span of his ribs where Nino has always, always wanted to be.

“Nino,” Jean says at last, his voice husky from his angle over Nino’s hips. Nino blinks and comes back into himself with a rush; Jean’s not licking against his skin anymore, isn’t catching the last fragments of chocolate with his teeth. He’s leaning in instead, pressing his forehead to Nino’s stomach so his hair falls forward to skim the other’s body beneath him; and at Nino’s hips Jean’s hold is easing, releasing him from his braced stillness to slide up towards the fly of his jeans instead. “I’m going to keep going.”

Nino ducks his head to nod immediate agreement. “Yes. Anything you want.”

Jean huffs a sigh. Nino can feel the heat of it spill hot across his stomach. “That’s not the only thing I want you to say,” he says, his tone very slightly chiding as he works the button of Nino’s jeans open and eases the fly down. “I don’t want this to be just what I want, you know.”

Nino can’t help the laugh that tenses in his chest, that pulls itself free of his throat in spite of the rising strain of arousal aching through the whole of his body. He shuts his eyes to the blank of the ceiling overhead, lets his lips curve up on a smile. “I thought my interest was obvious.”

“Mm,” Jean hums, like he’s considering the question. There’s a tug against the open front of Nino’s jeans, the weight of the fabric easing open for Jean’s touch; when he slides his fingers in under the denim Nino bites his lip to keep from groaning, to fight back the heat of his reaction as his hips flex up to push him against the pressure of Jean’s hand over his cock. There’s still a thin layer of fabric between them, the barrier enough to stall the actual heat of skin-on-skin; but it hardly makes a difference, at the moment, when Nino can feel every shift of Jean’s fingers directly against the aching heat of his body. “It’s pretty clear, you’re right.” His hand shifts, his palm slides down; and Nino does moan, then, as his legs flex hard against the bed to buck up against Jean’s hand. Jean doesn’t pull away, doesn’t even sound surprised; he just pushes down, offering resistance for the reflexive motion of Nino’s body as he continues. “I still want to hear it out loud.”

“Jean,” Nino groans, more for the taste of the other’s name on his lips than out of any real protest; it’s not as if he has anything he could even attempt to hide, as they are. It’s not as if he’s ever wanted to hide from Jean in the first place. “I want you.”

“Yes,” Jean says. His hand slides up, his palm grinds down; Nino’s lashes flutter, his legs flex, his arms pull involuntarily against Jean’s tie binding them to the bed. “Like this?”

Nino shakes his head, dismissive of the specificity more than the idea. “Anything. Your mouth, your hands, your--” and his voice gives way again as Jean’s hand slides all the way down inside his pants, cupping the whole of his cock right through the thin of his underwear. Nino chokes himself to incoherence, his voice breaking to a moan that sounds like Jean’s name, that tastes like years of devotion. “You. Jean.”

“Yeah,” Jean says; and then he’s sliding his hand free, drawing his touch up and out of Nino’s pants with such casual elegance that Nino can’t even protest the loss of the contact. It’s only for a moment anyway; Jean is sitting up at the end of the bed again, coming back up to kneel against the sheets, and when he reaches out again his fingertips slide along Nino’s hips, his touch dips down and under the weight of the other’s clothing. Nino gasps for air, hears his voice catching high and plaintive in the back of his throat; and then Jean is pulling down, drawing Nino’s clothes off his hips and down his legs, and Nino is left stripped bare before him, his whole body laid out for Jean’s consideration as the other slides off the end of the bed so he can tug Nino’s jeans off his ankles. Nino supposes he should feel self-conscious, thinks maybe he might, if he were with someone else, if _he_ were someone else; but he can’t think of himself at all, because Jean is there, and Nino has only ever had eyes for Jean. He can see appreciation in the other’s face, now, can watch the focus behind Jean’s gaze slide up his body and trail down, following the path he traced with his mouth with slow care: against Nino’s collarbones, down the pant of his breathing and past the flutter of his heartbeat, against the dip of his stomach and the shadow of his navel and down farther still, to the dark color of the curls against the base of his cock and the tremor in his thighs as he tries to keep himself from bucking up in futile, reflexive pursuit of more friction, more heat, like a plea made with the whole of his body instead of his heat-silenced mouth. Jean stares at Nino for long seconds, his attention clinging to the other’s body as if he’s never seen it before; and then he licks his lips, and swallows audibly, and Nino can feel the thrum of that sound run through the entirety of his body as if it’s a flash going off.

“Hang on,” Jean says, as if Nino has the least ability to move as he is, with his hands bound to the heavy weight of the headboard and his whole body shaking with the slow-stoked desire Jean has stirred in him; and he moves back from the edge of the bed, turning his back on Nino as he walks to the chair in the corner. If Nino turns his head he can watch Jean’s shirt shift on his shoulders, can see the fabric slide as the other ducks his head over the process of undoing his buttons; Nino can feel his skin glowing with heat at the thought, at the awareness of watching Jean undress while he goes unobserved himself. Jean finishes unbuttoning his shirt, tugs it free of his pants before shrugging it back and off his shoulders; Nino can see his shoulders flex under the thin of his undershirt as he strips his shirt off, can see the pull of muscle as Jean folds his shirt over the back of the chair and braces himself at the support so he can lift a foot and strip off first one sock and then the other. Jean’s undershirt goes next, the thin fabric catching at the hold of his fingers to invert over itself as he strips it up over his head, and from the bed Nino can feel the breath rush out of him at the shift of Jean’s shoulders, at the glow of skin laid bare for the illumination of the light overhead. Jean’s head shifts, he almost turns to look back -- Nino’s reaction didn’t go unnoticed -- but he doesn’t quite complete the motion, doesn’t quite make eye contact before he’s looking back down to undo the buckle of his belt and slide the leather free of his beltloops. The belt drapes over the back of the chair, Jean’s pants follow it with impressive rapidity; and then Jean is sliding his thumbs under the waistband of his underwear to push the fabric down and off his hips, and Nino is all but gasping for breath even though he’s done nothing at all but lie still and watch Jean undress. It’s too much, it’s always too much, to be allowed to see so much of Jean, to be able to see Jean so _himself_ , without even the familiar weight of clothes to cover him; and then Jean is reaching over the desk, and turning back to Nino, and Nino’s gaze is jumping to the other’s face even before he looks to the flush of Jean’s cock or the weight of the bottle the other is working open in his hands.

“Nino,” Jean says, his voice dipping tender and affectionate over the other’s name, and Nino whimpers in response, his chest tightening on the best answer he can manage to give under the circumstances. Jean is closing the distance between them, returning over the span of the bedroom floor as he opens the lid of the bottle and pours slick liquid over his fingers; up against the headboard Nino’s fingers curl reflexively in helpless response to the tension surging through him before he can make himself go slack against the bed. His intent to relax does nothing at all for the stiff heat of his cock, and Jean doesn’t seem to mind; he’s setting the bottle aside at the nightstand and leaning in without hesitating, bracing his clean hand at the sheets alongside Nino’s chest so he can steady himself with a knee at the bed enough to swing his other up and over Nino’s hips so he can straddle the span of the other’s body.

“Just a minute,” Jean says; and then he’s leaning in for Nino’s mouth, punctuating with a kiss before Nino can think to say he doesn’t mind, that he’d be happy to wait forever for Jean, that this is already so much more than he deserves, than he ever thought he would be allowed to have. Jean tips his head, angling himself deeper into the kiss; Nino parts his lips to touch his tongue to Jean’s mouth, to taste the suggestion of chocolate still clinging to the creases of the other’s lips against his. Jean hums in the back of his throat, opens his mouth as if in surrender to the slide of Nino’s tongue, and Nino is just licking into the heat of Jean’s mouth when he can feel the other’s knees around him tense with reflexive reaction, when Jean makes a low, strained sound that Nino can feel like fire on his tongue.

“ _Oh_ ,” Nino groans, offering that one sound like a prayer against the press of Jean’s mouth to his, as if it’s his body taking the press of the other’s fingers instead of Jean’s own. “ _Jean_.”

“Soon,” Jean says, sounding breathless and not bothering to pull away from Nino’s lips; and he starts moving, his hand shifting into a slow rhythm Nino can feel drag across his skin with every motion of Jean’s arm between them. Nino’s head is spinning, his breathing speeding faster with every beat of his heart; there’s too much all at once, everything is too immediate and too real and too impossible. Jean’s over him, so close Nino can feel the other’s breathing at his lips, can see the dark of his lashes and the flush of heat rising on his cheeks; his thighs are pressing tight at Nino’s hips, pinning the other in place as surely as his words already did. Nino’s hands are held up over his head, his whole self laid out under the heat of Jean’s body without even the ability to reach out and clasp Jean’s hips, to push his hair back from his face, to weight his palm against the thud of the other’s heart pounding in his chest. It’s torture, a slow build of the most exquisite suffering, and Nino feels like his entire life has brought him to this moment, to make an offering of himself for Jean’s use while his own independence remains bound of his own volition by the weight of the other’s tie.

“There,” Jean breathes, sighing the word like relief past his lips; and Nino can’t even answer him for how shaky-tense with anticipation he is. Jean pulls back, rocking over his knees as he draws his fingers free of himself and settles his weight over Nino’s hips for a moment; his weight presses hard against Nino’s body, the flex of his thighs and the sweat-slick of his skin clinging to the other like an echo of the melted chocolate Jean so thoroughly worked off Nino’s body. Nino can feel the slick of the lubrication at Jean’s skin against his, can feel the wet heat of it catching low at his hips like an invitation he can’t accept alone; and Jean reaches out for his shoulder, and braces his slippery fingers against Nino’s skin, and looks up to meet the dark of the other’s gaze with his own.

“Nino,” Jean says. His fingers tighten against the other’s skin, his touch slides slick across the line of Nino’s shoulder under his hold. “Are you okay?”

Nino feels like he’s going to pass out, like the steady climb of heat in his veins is going to swamp his consciousness and pull him down to a fever of arousal, draw him into desire endless and unbearable now that it’s once set free. But Jean is over him, fixing Nino with that clear blue stare, his tie and his weight both pinning Nino down to the reality of the moment and the soft of the bed; and so Nino ducks his head, and swallows hard until he can clear his throat to speak. “I’m okay.”

“Good,” Jean says; and then his hand shifts at Nino’s shoulder, his weight tips back, and he’s angling himself backwards over the other’s body, moving slowly as he lines himself up. Nino’s heart pounds in his chest, his breathing catches on the same tension he can feel straining against the steep upward angle of his arms over his head; but Jean doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even look away from Nino’s face in front of him. He just keeps watching, his gaze fixed on Nino’s like he’s reading the whole of the other’s existence from the heat-haze of his eyes, like he’s taking the cue for his movements from the part of the other’s lips; and then he presses down against the heat of Nino’s cock, and Nino’s breath rushes from him in a groan, his hips tip up without his intention. He hadn’t meant to rock up, hadn’t meant to strain his body into the desperate upward curve he’s making of it; but he can’t help it, not when he can feel the slick-wet heat of Jean’s body against his and the slip of the other’s skin pulling anticipation to strain against his spine. Jean’s lashes flutter, his head ducks down for a moment as he shifts the angle of his hips; and then he catches himself at the head of Nino’s cock, and tips himself back with deliberate force, and Nino can feel the tension of Jean’s body easing open around him.

“ _Oh_ ,” Nino groans, his lashes dipping as reflex takes over intent, as the friction surging through him overrides the importance of vision into a haze of heat for a heartbeat of time. “ _Jean_ ” but Jean doesn’t need the helpless want in Nino’s voice to spur him to action, isn’t waiting for the other’s response to continue his motion. He takes the other all at once, a slow slide back that flares white over Nino’s vision and knots disbelieving arousal low in his stomach; and then Jean is pressing flush to Nino’s hips, the open angle of his legs holding the other down to the bed, and Nino is gasping through the shudders of heat that course through him at the awareness that he’s right now, this moment, inside Jean.

Jean sighs a long exhale, slow and almost relieved; it’s enough to pull Nino’s eyes open again, to urge him to clear his vision enough to blink up at the other over him. Jean has rocked back over his heels, has let his weight settle wholly atop Nino’s body as he shuts his eyes; his head is tipped slightly back, like he’s offering the line of his throat to the glow of the light overhead. Nino can see the shift of muscle in his neck as he breathes, can see the glow of Jean’s lashes in the illumination; and then he ducks his head back down, and opens his eyes to look at Nino again.

“Nino,” he says, savoring the other’s name as if it’s as sweet as the chocolate he melted over their tongues. Jean shifts his weight, rocking back onto Nino’s cock like he’s appreciating the friction of it inside him; Nino can feel the tension of the other’s body around him, can feel the flex of Jean’s reaction tighten against his length. “You feel so good.”

“Jean,” Nino tries to say; but it comes out broken, the other’s name cracking over his tongue until he’s nearly sobbing the syllables, like his voice is trembling with the same all-over heat that has so gripped his body. “Jean.”

Jean shifts over Nino’s lap again, his lashes dipping as he sighs a breathless exhale. “ _So_ good,” he says; and then he’s leaning forward again, tipping in to cast Nino in his shadow as he braces his knees so he can move in earnest. Nino drags an inhale into his lungs, feels his breath sticking on the strain of anticipation, and then Jean moves over him, drawing up in a long drag of friction before sliding back down to sink himself onto the heat of Nino’s cock, and all Nino’s attention to anything else disintegrates into a groan at the feel of Jean riding him. He can’t reach out, can’t catch his hands at Jean’s shoulders or hips, can’t push the weight of Jean’s hair back from his face or pull the other down into a rhythm of his own impulse; he can barely even arch up off the bed to meet the downward slide of Jean’s hips, with the way he’s sprawled out across the sheets. All he can do is lie as he is, held in place by the hand at his shoulder and the tie around his wrists, shaking and gasping and compliant to whatever use Jean wants to make of him. It makes him think of the photographs he’s so familiar with, as if that first picture Jean took of him locked him to the same stillness of those permanent images, pinned him to immobility where he lies; and now there’s reality surging in around him, Jean moving over and around him through the passage of time Nino can only observe, and Nino can feel himself coming apart, can feel the heat in his veins developing into the clarity of inevitability with every gasping inhale he takes.

“Wow,” Jean breathes, sounding a little bit shaken and a little bit amused. There’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, the beginning of a laugh in the back of his throat; Nino blinks hard, trying to hold himself to reality by the tether of Jean’s smile, by the dark of the other’s eyes as he looks down at Nino under him. “This is incredible.” He leans in a little closer, his lashes dipping to shadow over his eyes; with his gaze half-lidded his clear focus turns smokey, until Nino imagines he can feel the heat of it turning his breath to steam even as he gasps for air. “Does it feel this good for you too, Nino?”

“Oh,” Nino gasps, feeling his thighs tense, feeling his shoulders flex against the bed as his lashes flutter with helpless force, like the soft weight of them has gone so heavy he can’t keep them up even for the draw of watching Jean’s face so close over his own. “ _Jean_.”

“I don’t think I’m going to last much longer,” Jean says, speaking low like it’s a confidence, like he’s sharing a secret with the desperate part of Nino’s lips all but against his. “It’s…” as his voice gives way, as his head ducks down for a moment. His hair is gold in the illumination overhead. “ _Oh_.”

“Jean,” Nino gasps, feeling his coherency unravelling, feeling his whole awareness giving way at the edges, until even the clarity of Jean over him starts to dissolve into distraction. “Jean, I--”

 _I love you_ , he wants to say. _I want you. I have always wanted you_. But the words won’t come, they stick in his chest as if Jean’s fingers are curled around his throat instead of at his shoulder; and Jean is panting for air over him, now, moving harder and faster in pursuit of that same heat that has ducked his head down, that is sticking his breathing so fast in his chest.

“God,” Jean says without lifting his head; and his hand at Nino’s shoulder tightens, his grip bracing tight so he can slide his other hand down between their bodies, can curl his fingers in against the flushed curve of his cock. Nino’s gaze drops to follow the movement, to watch the easy familiarity in the flex of Jean’s wrist and the fit of his fingers against the smooth line of his arousal; and low in Nino’s stomach heat knots itself to tautness, high in his chest his breathing catches to a gasp.

“Jean,” Nino chokes off, a warning as much as a plea; and his legs are flexing, his whole body arching up off the bed to press closer to Jean over him, to fit his body farther against the heat of the other’s. Jean keeps moving without hesitation, pulling up and sliding back down, his body working heat over Nino’s cock with every slick drag of friction; and Nino can feel himself coming undone, can feel anticipation pulling into pleasure with each of Jean’s motions over him.

“Oh my god, Nino,” Jean gasps, his voice shaking as he watches his hand stroke up over himself. “I think I’m going to come,” and he lifts his chin, his eyes focus on Nino’s face, and Nino’s whole body spasms, every muscle flexing hard as his orgasm spills out into him from the fixed point of Jean tensing around his cock. He can hear the sound spilling from his throat, the gasping moan of “ _Jean_ ” stretching long and shaky on the heat in his chest; he can feel the rush of sensation rippling through him, flexing his shoulders and trembling in his thighs as his cock jerks with each pulse of pleasure. Over him Jean groans, a short, cut-off sound Nino can feel run down the whole of his spine as the other tenses against him, his knees pressing hard to Nino’s hips; against Nino’s stomach there’s a spill of wet heat as Jean comes but Nino can’t clear his vision, can’t collect himself even to see the shudders of pleasure he can hear in the trembling inhales Jean is taking over him. His vision is too hazy, his body thrumming with too much pleasure, and for long moments all he can manage to do is to lie slack across the bed and let the aftershocks of heat wash over him.

Jean moves before Nino is ready for him to. If his hands were free he thinks he might reach out to grab at the other’s hips, to hold him steady with selfish insistence; but as it is all he can do is gasp as Jean rocks up and off him, as his slow-softening cock slides out of the slick heat of Jean’s body. Jean makes a low noise as he moves, a huff of sound like an afterimage of the pleasure that so gripped them both; and then he leans in to reach for the headboard while Nino is still trying to blink his vision into clarity. Jean’s hand braces alongside his, the other’s hold pinning tight to the wood to steady himself, and then his touch slides against Nino’s wrist to fit into the folds of the knot tied against the other’s skin to hold his hands up against the bed.

“I hope you didn’t mind,” Jean says, almost idly, as he tugs the tie free of Nino’s wrists with easy, efficient movements. If Nino tips his head back he can see the span of Jean’s chest running up to the shift of his throat, can see the soft curve of the other’s lips and the attention in his eyes as he works the knot of the tie free from around Nino’s hands. He looks calm, focused on what he’s doing; there’s only the color clinging to his lips and the flush warm across his face to speak to the haze of pleasure still coursing through his veins. Nino feels far more undone, as if the press of Jean’s skin against his has stripped all coherency from his tongue, has left him as incapable of communication as an undeveloped picture. The bonds at his wrists give way, his hands slide free of the loops of Jean’s tie around them, and Jean rocks back over his heels, letting his weight pin Nino back to the bed as he reaches to catch one of Nino’s slack wrists between his hands and press his fingers to the print of the tie left on the skin. He ducks his head over what he’s doing, his lips parting on the focus he’s giving the other; and Nino watches him, his attention fixing itself to the tangle of Jean’s hair, the line of his nose, the angle of his cheekbones under heat-flushed skin.

“I don’t think it’ll leave a bruise,” Jean says, making the declaration with a tone of some satisfaction as he considers the skin under his fingers. “That’s good. I was worried I would hurt you.” He lets Nino’s hand go so he can reach for the other to apply the same gentle friction to the red marks left by the restraints; Nino is left with his fingers hovering in midair, unwilling to lower his hand to the bed but unable to make himself reach out to cross the gap to Jean’s skin in front of him, even with Jean’s own hands pressing so casually against his own body. Jean’s thumb weights against the thud of Nino’s pulse in his wrist, Jean ducks his head into a nod of satisfaction; and then he lifts his head, and looks up to see the way Nino is watching him.

They stare at each other for a long moment. Nino wonders what it is Jean sees when the other looks at him; if he sees the same features Nino passes over when he glimpses his own reflection, if he sees the years of friendship between them hanging like a haze of nostalgia to soften the everyday angles of Nino’s face into something softer and warmer. Maybe he sees the shape of the camera, usually so everpresent but absent now; maybe he sees the weight of Nino’s soul behind his eyes, maybe he can see the open offer of his heart that Nino can’t hold back even with Jean gazing at him with such intensity. Nino knows what he sees: Jean Otus, first his duty, then his friend, now his lover; and his prince, then and now and always, the fixed point by which Nino has structured the whole of his identity, the sovereign to whom Nino happily offers his whole existence as a fraction of the tribute the other deserves.

“Nino,” Jean says, his voice softer than usual, gentle on the name; and he reaches out over the distance between them, closing the gap as if it isn’t there at all to touch his fingers to Nino’s cheek, to skim against the dark of the other’s hair. There’s something tender at his mouth, aching and almost sad; Nino can feel his heart strain to encompass it, to take in the clarity of this moment as if his memory is to stand in for the camera left on the desk behind them. Jean’s lashes dip, his thumb slides gently against Nino’s hair. “I love you.”

Nino’s chest works, his lungs fill on a breath of air as if Jean’s words were giving them permission to function once more; and at Jean’s hips his hands drift down to land against the other’s skin, to frame the shape of Jean’s body between his palms as delicately as he has ever cradled the camera that always stood between them before.

“Jean,” Nino says, his voice breaking open in his throat; and Jean’s lashes flutter, his shoulders tip in, and his lips press against Nino’s mouth, gentle heat to mend the cracks in Nino’s speech, to ease the aching want in the other’s chest. Nino shuts his eyes, surrendering his vision to the heat of Jean’s mouth on his, to the gentle fit of Jean’s hands framing his face; and under his touch Jean settles closer, fitting himself against the heat of Nino’s body as if the breathless friction of the other’s hands on him is enough to guide his path into Nino’s arms.

Nino can see the picture they make together clear behind the dark of his closed eyes.


End file.
